There is nothing better than shopping in the middle of the afternoon on a weekday. The stores have that fresh new-clothes smell and you get to enjoy being amongst people without having to actually talk to them. And the stores are quiet. You can pretty much shop in peace. After trying on Clinique make-up in Dillard's that made my face break out, I continued to browse around the store when suddenly I ran up against another shopper.
Startled by the person's unexpected presence, I tried to save face. I flashed a bright smile, and gave a little combo head-nod-half-wave, and tossed out a cheery "hi!" (like you would when trying to cover your awkwardness in a surprise encounter)...only to realize that I had just politely (and loudly) greeted a life-sized cardboard cut-out of Justin Bieber.
Needless to say, after looking around to see if anyone had seen my awkward encounter, I made a beeline for the door.
Justin Bieber cut-out: 1, Me (Not as cool as I thought): 0
I am finding myself a bit monkey obsessed as I'm sure you can tell after the monkey back pack toddles leash and monkey riding a pig posts, so in keeping with my theme, I thought it might be nice to learn how to make a monkey balloon animal. I have done the hard hours of research so that you don't have to. And I am sharing my intellectual findings with you, in the form of a pirate? Puritan? Clown? Listen, she's hard to classify, but the memory of her will stick with you. You're welcome.
Sometimes, when you're feeling a bit dejected, you have to find something to shake you out of it. Monkeys always make you feel a bit better. Here you go:
Today, a man in a little "store" across from the Whistle Stop Cafe on McCrackin Street, in Juliette Georgia (where the movie Fried Green Tomatoes was filmed), attempted to sell me bits of movie paraphenalia, and when I would not bite, tried to convince me to buy into his business, which was basically an electronic card that people would hang around their necks, displaying all of the person's medical records. In theory, this sounds like a great idea...if there is a problem, someone can click a little button and access all of your medical history: charts, allergies, immunizations, serious ailments, even x-rays. He wanted me to talk to the higher-ups at the college where I teach to see if they would be interested in supplying all of their incoming freshman with medical cards. ("It's a tax right-off," he said.)
But let's think about this....can you really see an eighteen year old in a club wearing a lanyard with a plastic card around his neck? And what happens when there's a bar fight? I imagine some kid sprawled on the ground in some hole of a club, his personal records on file for anyone to steal.
Not actual lanyard...or college student...but it's a very close rendition....seriously!
Can we say, "identity theft," anyone? I wanted to tell this man that where I come from (being born of the Buffalo wing), people would not want strangers accessing their personal information. We'd rather go down in a bloody, painful spiral toward death, than admit to our medical failings, or let anyone have any access to something they could steal. And I would have told this very southern man...but he kept talking abouy how it was God's will. Apparently, it was preordained that this man and his friends would save the world through electronics.
When I first moved to Macon, Georgia, I was taken aback when the first questions people asked me upon introduction were, "What church do you go to?" or "Have you been saved?" Since then I have realized the importance church plays in a small southern city. Imagine the horror when I told people that I don't go to church.
That's right, I'm what you might call a "lapsed Catholic" or perhaps more appropriately, a "fallen Catholic." If I'm being honest with myself, I have to admit that even when I was a practicing Catholic, in my adolescence, church was a place to meet new boys whom I would then seduce at church-sanctioned events.
The Hubs was raised as a Baptist and has a greater appreciation for organized religion. He occasionally suggests going to a new church, just to check it out. Yesterday, the Hubs had a wild urge to go to St. Peter Claver's Catholic Church for mass. So, I looked up the website and we chose a service to attend. This is where the trouble began.
On the way to the 11:15 mass, the Hubs had a good point. The conversation went sort of like this:
Me: You're supposed to go to confession if you haven't been to mass in a while in order to take communion, but I'd totally take it anyway if I could. I'm a bad Catholic.
Hubs: Why can't you? Oh...gluten.
Me: Yeah, it's made of wheat. (Note: I have a gluten allergy)
Hubs: But it's unleavened, are you sure?
Me: Yeah, I looked it up once, it has wheat flour in it.
Hubs: But...it doesn't really, right...cause of the whole Jesus thing?
Me: That's true. Catholics are supposed to believe the host actually turns into Jesus.
Hubs: Isn't Jesus gluten free?
Me: I could totally take communion and see if my face blows up, proving the whole "Body of Christ" thing wrong. See, this is why I'm a bad Catholic.
And by this time we were at church. We were even a few minutes early. But when we got inside, there was no mass!!
The Hubs and I were in Lowe’s, looking for patio blocks to put under our new fire-pit (the pyro in me rejoices!), and after my attempt to convince him to buy me a giant trough to put the dog in, I stumbled across something that I would obsess about for days to come: Breast Cancer Awareness Mums. The mums were an unnatural pink color, somewhere between fuchsia and Pepto-Bismol. They were in little plastic tubs, wrapped in pink plastic with breast cancer ribbon emblems.
Lately, I have seen the breast cancer awareness items everywhere. I will admit that I am tempted by the breast cancer ribbon travel mugs, or limited edition breast cancer awareness nail polish bottles, but, breast cancer mums? What’s next? Breast cancer crepe myrtles? Breast cancer flamingos? Breast cancer sunsets?
Why does breast cancer get all of the awareness? We are already aware. What about all of those other terrible diseases out there? Don’t they deserve some attention? Don’t they get a day? A symbolic representation of awareness?
Here are some suggestions:
Beriberi Awareness Day – A disease that results from a lack of Thiamin that could result in tingling, confusion, pain, shortness of breath, leg swelling, etc. This one is easy for branding:
Kuru Awareness Day – A disease that results from eating human brain. According to Wikipedia, the disease results in “body tremors” and is also known as “laughing sickness” because affected people are prone to “pathological bursts of laughter.” Hmmm…
A little taste of cool air in middle Georgia has opened up the creepy old lady in me. Today, I began dreaming of the Christmas season and wondering how many days I could get away with wearing my Christmas sweater-- a black, obviously acrylic sweater enhanced with a bedazzled Christmas tree, which I bought on sale at Walmart...sort of as a joke...sort of because I love it. Every year I wear it, and every year my college students look at me as if I've lost my mind. I bring in candy canes and cocoa and forcefeed students with my Christmas cheer. And when they tell me I have no fashion sense, I send them on a quest...to watch "Gem Sweater" by Lelsie and the Lys. This is my fashion guru, who I long to emulate. For those of you who have missed out on the wonder of Leslie and the Lys, here you go:
I began a novel during National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) last November. It's the first book of a cozy mystery series, and my goal is to have it available on Amazon sometime this Spring. In order to make myself keep writing, I need a bit of harassment, so I'm asking you all to hold me accountable. Here is the first chapter of the novel. Enjoy!...
Chapter 1 (of the Annie Zimmerman Mystery Series)
I sat at the foot of my late Aunt Edna’s wrought iron bed with the remnants of my beef and broccoli, chewing on my plastic fork, and beating a rhythm on the bed frame. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I had decided to treat myself earlier and had called up Wok With Me, a local Chinese delivery place to order takeout. The delivery boy was the first person I had seen all day and I may have scared him a bit with my mindless chatter. I’m pretty sure he thought I was hitting on him. Could have been because I asked him if he wanted to come in…
I remember standing at the doorway with my hair yanked up on the top of my head in an unflattering bun, wearing a sweatshirt with the neckline torn out…very eighties-throw-back style…and Hello Kitty slippers. (Don’t judge me. They were a present from my well-meaning mother... I swear.) I was feeling a bit sleepy from the Benedryl I had taken earlier to help curb the sneezing from all of the dust I had kicked up in the packing process, and I think I may have said “Hey, you want some?” while holding up the take-out bag, which would have been fine, but my eyes were watering and I’m pretty sure he thought I was winking at him. I could see the discomfort in his face, which of course, made me uncomfortable, always a dangerous emotion for my communication abilities. I tried to back-track. “No, I was just looking for company…” This was not better. The tearing got worse and not I probably looked as if I were crying. I tried again. “It’s just that I’m new in town,” I stammered as he fled to his beat-up delivery car. It was embarrassing, and I couldn’t help but hope that he was to uncomfortable to share this story with anyone in town.
I have realized that I am in the wrong profession. Sure, teaching kids is noble and rewarding (less if your "kids" are between 18 & 20 and occassionally hit on you in the middle of a lesson), but I have come to discover that teaching may not be my true calling. What is, you ask? Sales.
Seriously, I should be selling stuff. When I like a product, I talk about it endlessly (just ask the Hubs who is tired of conversations about my fabulous shoes and my new favorite nail polish or hair product).
Today, I provided free adversing for the Honey Crisp Apple.
Growing up in Western New York made me an apple snob. Every fall, we'd climb in the car and drive for an hour and a half to go apple picking in Victor, New York. We'd hop on a wagon pulled by a tractor and drive back into the trees. We ate apples straight from the branch (because we had to compare the product to choose our favorite). We usually bought so many apples that we'd have them straight through the winter.
In NY, apples are crisp. The skin practically pops when you sink your teeth in, and the fruit is juicy and crunchy. In Georgia, this is not the case. Here, the skin gives as if it's been sitting too long. It's tough and stalky tasting. The apple is mealy and has lost its tart, snappy crunch. The juices have mellowed into a disappointing soft sweetness. Georgia apples are no good for apple crisp or homemade applesauce. Or so I thought...
But a year ago, I discovered the Honey Crisp apple at the local Fresh Market grocery store. Honey Crisps could have been picked in New York. They make me unnaturally happy. I may occassionally bust out a jig in the middle of the grocery store. The Hubs may point out that my very excited voice tends to carry through the store and that people might be staring. My celebration might look something like this:
Only I'd be rolling around, or rubbing the apple skin against my cheek in a creepily sensual way.
When I went to get more flavored coffee this morning, the Fresh Market had Honey Crisps. It was officially fall in my eyes. And when I went to the cash register, the cashier made the mistake of commenting in my apples. The conversation went a little something like this:
Cashier (who was extremely short, by the way): Everyone is buying these today!
Me: Have you had them? They're amazing.
Cashier: No, I'll have to try them.
(At this point, I'm pretty sure she thought the conversation was over....it was soooo not!)
Me: No really, they are the best apples you can get in Georgia. I grew up in New York, and I used to pick apples every fall. The apples there are so much better than anything you can get here.
Cashier: Really...(feigning interest. At this point the couple in their fifties standing behind in line me started looking uncomfortable.)
Me: The Honey Crisps are the closest thing to the apples you get in New York. They're the only ones I will eat down here. (Then I turned to the couple.) Have you had them?
(The wife looked nervous, and the husband looked at the apples they had picked up.)
Husband: Uh...yeah...(he looked at his wife weirdly. He must have thought I was judging him for buying cheap apples).
Me: They're great, right?? (The cashier handed me my receipt)
He muttered something that sounded like it could have been agreement.
Me: They're just so crips and fresh!
It his point I was still talking to the cashier, but she was now ignoring me and greeting the couple behind me. The wife had turned her back to me and I stood there, collecting my bags and feeling unappreciated.
Me: Ok, have a good day!
Them: no response at all!!!!!!
This is what I wanted to do to them:
Who throws an apple? I do, bitches. Take that!
I just hope they try the apples. They will not be sorry!! And I will make it my mission to sell these apples to anyone who will listen!!! (I just hope that sales don't go down because of it!
I recently went to Myrtle Beach for a week-long study on group think. Ok, it was actually an all-girls trip, also known as "Meghan's Last Hurrah." The concept of the trip was that Meghan's husband wants to start having kids and may have at one point told her that "he no longer cares if it's consensual," and while he was kidding...he was serious about wanting to start a family. So, as a good college roommate, I felt it my duty to attend her last hurrah. There was a very nice condo...there were Doritos...there were t-shirts.
As the week progressed, I suddenly had an understanding of how "Girls Gone Wild" can actually happen. Group think is dangerous...especially for women. Now, I want to share my knowledge with you.
When men gather, there is often beer, sports talk, a possible strip club trip for a bachelor party.
When women gather, there is no telling what will happen.
Here is what I learned:
1. In the age of post-feminism, five women in their late twenties and early thirties will turn into men when vacationing together, and not just regular men, but extremely crass convict-types. As the week progressed, the belching and bathroom talk got progressively worse. The mild insults suddenly morphed into uncomfortable knock-offs of what you might hear in a federal penitentiary. It has been weeks and still can't stop swearing.
2. Dawson's Creek is still relevant...for Meghan and I anyway. We went to North Carolina on a pilgrimage to see where the show was filmed. No one knew much. But we did find magnets (which are now on my fridge):
See the dock? We were totally there! Stop judging me.
3. Group think will make it seem like a good idea to explain the purpose of the last hurrah to everyone who thinks you are a bachelorette party. Then drunk people may say things like..."Oh you're pregnant, congratulation!" (yeah dude, she's pregnant, buy her a shot) or "have a great baby!" (thanks lady, I will!)
4. Tourist traps are for amateurs. A seasoned group-thinker will suggest something like "we're going to the first bar on the right!" And, no one will argue. They will instead think that this is a fabulous idea. This will start to be a mantra. You may end up at the first bowling alley on the right. You probably won't know the name of it, because all you saw were the giant letters painted on a decrepit building that labeled it "Bowling Alley." You may then make friends with a bar tender and accidentally insult one of the guys in the two-man band who is telling a story that involves his dead wife. But you don't care, because you are with your fellow group thinkers who will later suggest flashing the taxi driver for a free ride home. Things may quickly spin out of control.
5. There will be clowns
Her nose was sparkly.
4. Someone will buy a hermit crab and then spend days trying to figure out how to sneak it home on a plane. She will name the crab "Myrtle" and will spend money on ridiculous hermit crab accessories. Myrtle (the crab not the beach) will become your "last hurrah" mascot.
Myrtle taking a nap with pirate in a hammock.
Myrtle's first Ultra.
This hurrah-goer will continue to send updates (Kerry...where's my latest update?)
Myrtle makes a new friend at home...the airplane sneaking was successful.
But the worst part of group think? When your kidneys and livers have recovered, suddenly you will be calling each other deciding that you should do it all again.
Cheers to Meghan's Last Hurrah!
What has group think led you to do? Share your stories!
As I watched the cockfight over the downfall of the economy, I realized that I am a pathetic excuse for a conscientious American. How do I know this? Because these are the thoughts that went through my head (or erupted from my mouth until the Hubs shushed me into submission). Feel free to judge me:
No!!!!! The Bachelorette! What happened with Constantine??? Obama's always ruining my TV nights!
Man I need a new cell phone background (I then proceeded to take multiple photos of ridiculous things in my house, ending with a slightly off center photo of an owl greeting card):
whoo...whoo is actually watching this voluntarily...oh...the Hubs is...
Good thing the US doesn't have a Capital One credit card...those bastards are unforgiving! They must be republicans.
Oh...super long pause while we stare at the newscasters...don't blink, don't blink...uncomfortable.
Nice tie Boehner... must be trying to reach those young whipper-snappers with the fresh and feisty tie. Nice try Boehner, nice try. You're still an old dude, even with your yellow polka dots!
Oh! Bitchslap! Big government = bad! Here's what I REALLY want to see Boehner!!
I wonder what Obama and Boehner's love child would look like? And then I took the time to create a composite on www.morphthing.com.Here it is:
Now that baby can pull off a green tie with yellow polka dots. What have we learned? Compromise = coolness
Since I posted about the monkey backpack leash, I have found myself obsessed with things that can cause children long-term psychological and/or emotional trauma. Instead of working, I have spent inordinate amounts of time thinking about things that scared me as a child. And I have been painstakingly searching the internet for things that creep me out or make me giggle uncontrollably (I'm told they actually have medicine for that), and I have compiled a list for your viewing pleasure.
Sing this as a lullaby (my mother actually did sing this as a lullaby...and I usually requested it....hmm.....)
2. Fun for a little while...until they look back on their formative years...why was daddy wearing a saddle? And why did mommy like to ride too?
3. Expecting a new brother or sister for your child? Trying to figure out how to explain where babies come from? Now you can use anatomically correct birthing dolls like these!
This cool little starter kit features easy recipes like blueberry pancakes, fried "chicken", enchilada bake, chocolate mousse to die for and many more! Everyone and anyone could be vegetarian because it's that easy, especially with all of the options we have in local stores like Walmart, Kroger and Aldi. Get started on everything you need to eat right for your health, for animals and for the Earth.Shoot me an email and i'll mail you a starter kit or drop one off depending on where you are located.
Stay happy, healthy and strive for greatness!
•Location: Warner Robins, Ga
•it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
As a socially conscious blogger, I feel the need to disclose certain information even if it's uncomfortable and disturbing. Today, I need to introduce you to Babyland General Hospital.
The Hubs and I met his family in north Georgia for the weekend, for some rest and relaxation. His nieces, as always when in north Georgia, wanted to make an afternoon trip to Babyland General Hospital, in Cleveland, GA. I agreed more excitedly than I probably should have because I love weird things.
For those of you who have not heard of this magical place, Babyland is where the cabbage patch kid is born. That's right, mother hill pushes out multiple babies a day from her little cabbage with a little help from some "imagicillin" and a CPD (Cabbage Patch Doctor). I have put together a little photo-journalistic collection of the experience for your viewing pleasure, in order that you might get the full experience.
Imagine this: you drive up to an immense white building on a hill. It has white columns and looks like a Gone With the Wind revival.
Not kidding...that is really Babyland General...intimidating? I feel under-dressed.
Welcome to babyland. I will be your guide for this amazing journey into the American childhood experience!
When you enter Babyland, you make your way through the preemie ward, and various nurseries...
Overcrowding leads to unhealthy living conditions. With ten babies or more per bed, they're just asking for a Rubella epidemic. (p.s. What is Rubella?)
Um...the incubators in the back contain severed heads sprouting from cabbages...and yet none of the children are crying.
Here is a close-up
Then you reach the center of the complex...the mecca...the hill of life from which babies are spawned:
Once here, you get to witness a "live birth." Let me break it down for you:
Everyone at Babyland is summoned over the loudspeaker to gather around the cabbage hill. It is like a cattle call of screaming and excited children and nervous-looking adults. Crystals light up suggesting that "Mother Cabbage" is in fact, ready to give birth (crystals will also change color to indicate if the cabbage is having a boy or a girl. The CPD announces that Mother Cabbage is "ten leaves dilated."The CPD gives mother a "shot of imagicillin" which hangs from the tree of life in an IV drip. This doctor then proceeds to pull a baby had first from a cabbage (glad that it is not a "branch" delivery), smack it on the bottom and then ask the children in the audience to name the baby. This results in the excessive screaming of children and ridiculous name combinations like Ebony Samantha, or Keyanna Jane. Children who did not speak up fast enough are crying. Then the doctor announces that the baby must have his/her first check-up at the nurses station, but after that Teague Benjamin will be available for adoption to one lucky child. (He does not mention that this newborn will cost $400 dollars.)
Want to get the experience for yourself? I found an amazing video on YouTube. I realize that it was filmed sideways, but it is the clearest and best video I could find to capture the weirdness:
Once the birthing is over, children run rampant through the cabbage patch store, grabbing item after item: the preemie, the newborn, the cabbage patch stroller. Parents suddenly are dropping ridiculous amounts of money on this paraphernalia. But tell me this, how could you not want to buy something to commemorate such an amazing experience? I could not resist the urge. I bought an imagicillin pen (shaped like a syringe...can't wait to take that through airport security!) and a small travel companion:
Meet Wilhemina! I chose the Asian doll because she had the coolest outfit...plus she was sporting a socially conscious breast cancer awareness stripe in her hair. Show you care...be aware!
Don't worry, this is not the last you will see of Wilhemina! She's bound for great adventures!!
As I left JC Penny's this afternoon, I was walking behind a little girl who was tethered to her grandmother by a furry monkey backpack...whose tail was a leash. Fascinated, I inched closer to take a picture, but then remembered that my camera phone makes a very loud clicking noise. So in order to not be considered a creeper, I refrained. I also refrained from petting the monkey. Good for me.
We'll have to make due with a similar shot:
(Not actual toddler in mall. Toddler in mall had cooler haircut. Actually I kind of wanted her haircut.)
Now, I realize that toddler leashing is a controversial topic. I can see why, as some websites refer to these leashes as "toddler restraining harnesses." Other objectionable terms: "child tether," "child leash," or "walking reins" (which leads me to wonder if there are also running reins...like booster seats instead of infant car seats). So I wanted to provide a little more information. According to http://histclo.com/style/other/teath.html (which I maybe reading illegally as the site asked for a password and I just kept hitting cancel until it gave up), the toddler leash concept dates back to the 17th century. It has slipped in and out of popularity, but seems to be in fashion once again. My favorite section describes modern toddler leashes, some of which are "unescapable."
(Perhaps????)
I realize that as a non-mom, many will say that I have no right to comment on such a contraption. But to those people I say: let me try it out on your child so that I can speak from experience. (It's only fair really.)
But since I cannot currently borrow a child, as none of my friends with toddlers live in the state, I asked the woman across from me at Panera (who was sporting a six month old) what she thought of the toddler leash. Apparently she was leashed as a child, though she mentioned it was not popular then and that her leash was basically a wrist rope that looked very similar to a dog collar/leash. She claims that her parents purchased said leash and did not make it themselves. (Um...lady, sure they purchased it...at the local pet store.) This woman was pro-leash...but then she also started spouting off about the benefits of spanking and had a strange intensity in her eyes that led me to cut the conversation short.
Personally, I can't help but wonder what kind of tricks the leashed toddler could learn. Can they learn to fetch? To heel? Can I teach them to make me iced coffee and reward them with chew toys?
When training my dog, I found that the leash can be very effective...especially the zippy ones. You give 'em a little space, and then when they are comfortable with their freedom you snap 'em back to show them who's in charge. Tough love.
I'm just saying: my brother would have felt up a lot fewer women (he loved nylons) if he had been leashed.
My conclusion?
Personally, I like the toddler leash. It's funny and just a little demeaning...which is good for kids.
Those of you who know me may find me mildly amusing. But this blog is hysterical. I want to be her friend. I laughed out loud at Starbucks...which had some people looking at me as if I had snorted my espresso, cocaine style...which I only did once (snorted espresso, not snorted cocaine), so I don't know what the big deal is. Anyway, I have to share, and to tell you that I am seriously contemplating purchasing a travel chicken. Hubs...I can buy you one, too, if you want, so you can have your very own!
So, I turned on the Today Show this morning while my husband got ready for work (yes that’s right…I have off for the summer…the joys of teaching!!), and when my local weather came on I immediately wanted to cry…or curse…’cause cursing is one of my favorite things to do.
Why, you may ask? Because today is supposed top out at around 100 degrees, but with the added joys of soup-like humidity, it will feel like 110. Now, I know those of you who live in Texas or Arizona are scoffing at my wimpiness as you read this. But to you I say…were you spawned from the depths of hell??! Because I was born in Buffalo (see my previous discussion of what this means) and my arctic youth did not prepare me to melt.
And I blame The Hubs for this of course, because it is his fault that I now live on the hell-mouth. I am slowly morphing into a creature from the depths. As I walked the dog I found myself slowing to a meandering shuffle, loping from shady spot to shady spot. I spread my arms and legs as far from each other as possible so that no part of my body touched another. I’m pretty sure I was grunting. I imagine I looked something like this:
My dog began to cower:
(Not my real dog)
I began to wonder if this swampy environment would have me growing scales and gills. I’m pretty sure I could have breathed fire (as I had not yet brushed my teeth for the day), and I found myself wanting to torture small creatures. I chased neighborhood cats and let my dog attempt to attack a squirrel (sorry Bodha, I’m sure you were just playing and this act was in no way intentionally malicious).
I began to look for Buffy the Vampire Slayer behind the perfectly manicured bushes in my neighbors’ yards, with certainty that I could take her. I mean seriously…she weighed what, 100 pounds? Plus by this point I could spray her with my thick blood which had to be black and inky, as I imagine most demon blood is. I would have the advantage of blinding her. Plus, my killer dog (who had now joined me in my obsession with taking over our gated community) would distract her until I could take her out with my dog’s zippy leash or smother her with a poop bag pulled from Bodha’s little bone shaped poop bag holder.
When I returned home, I spent some time laying directly on top of the air conditioning vent . Finally, once I reverted back to my human form, I came to this conclusion: people weren’t meant to live in Georgia. Hubs…this is directed at you.
(Disclaimer: No cats, dogs, squirrels, demons or vampire slayers were actually harmed in the events leading up to the writing of this blog post.)
I've recently discovered that I may have a problem. Apparently, being the creative sort means that I also am prone to flights of fancy. And these flights are not as whimsical as they sound. In fact, my fancy flights usually involve quite a bit of turbulence. I start with a simple thought, and then my brain twists it. The free-flowing process goes a little something like this:
Man, I haven't written any new pages in my mystery novel in almost a month...if I don't finish I'll be stuck at my job forever with no benefits or retirement...I'd better apply for jobs...maybe I should work at Starbucks...maybe I should go back to school and do something useful like pharmacology, where I'll make millions until I get sued for switching an 80 year old man's prescription with horse tranquilizer (because apparently I will be providing medication for nursing homes and large animal farms)...and my photo will be in the paper next to a picture of his bloated, foaming face...Then I'll have to flee the country and go where they can't find me...Crap, I don't have a passport... I wonder if I could swim across one of the Great Lakes and make it to Canada...but then I'll have no ID and I'll have to become a stripper to survive...my husband (AKA the Hubs) would not be pleased...maybe he could be my pimp...He'll need a proper hat for that...with a feather in it...I bet they have feathers at Michael's...and some sequins for my skimpy stripper underwear...
At this point, I will still be looking at a blank screen and hours will have passed, and I'll be feeling something like this:
The Hubs doesn't seem to understand my anxiety when he gets home from work and I race at him, panicked, from my little office. He is rightly flabbergasted at my crazy-eyed melt-down. He very sweetly tries to talk me down, but after a few summer weeks of this, his patience is obviously depleted.
But, I have discovered the solution to my apparent unnecessary anxiety. When trying to get rid of the random hives spreading over my hips continually for weeks (my body was apparently also suffering from my creative flights), I stumbled upon the wonders of Benedryl. When I kept on a regimented treatment of Benedryl ever 4-6 hours to stabilize my hives, there was an unexpected and happy side effect: the flights of fancy stopped.
That's right! A couple of little pink pills, and the voices in my head subsided. I waltzed through life contented (if not a bit doped up) with the help of an antihistamine (freeing me up to do things like write this blog)!
While I do not advocate fixing your life through use of a controlled substance...I must admit that I have a new found love of Benedryl. So my one question is this: Do I have a problem?
. 
